Piper of the Moon

fauns

By Thomas LeRoy, founder of the Sect of the Horned God

His pipes lament,
Under the frost-white moon.
A melancholy air echoes in the stillness of the field,
A sombre, untamed ode to Life,
Made manifest by breath.
He calls her.

The scent of the raw, moist earth,
The scent of the flora,
The scent of her;
Drifts upon the ecstasy of Being,
Carved out of the longing of the Flesh,
To know her.

Then, a fleeting glimpse!
A wraith?
A soft, white figure veiled in the mist,
Flowing black hair, a cowl of silk,
As she melts into the night with a laugh.
The nymph evades his song.
His lust.
Him.

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